


cast-iron heart

by annejumps



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Disguise, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Male Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely Erik the blacksmith can't go to the ball being held for the prince -- he's covered in soot, and he hasn't got a thing to wear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cast-iron heart

Erik was busy at the anvil when a blur of pale blue caught his eye. He looked up. A royal messenger in uniform was at the gate.

Erik looked around, but no one else was in sight on the grounds of Shaw Manor. Reluctantly, he put down the hammer and went to the gate.

As he approached, the messenger, a blond young man with a sulky expression, unfolded a banner and began to read from it. “His Royal Majesty King Brian Xavier III summons all unmarried citizens of Genosha to a masquerade ball in honor of his son, His Royal Highness Prince Charles Xavier, to be held in one fortnight,” he announced loudly, as if he were talking to more people than just Erik.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Erik asked, wiping his soot-blackened hands on his soot-blackened apron. 

“If you’re unmarried, you have to go to the ball,” the messenger said, impatient. “The king has decreed it.”

“Why?”

“To marry his son off,” the messenger said. “He’s getting up there. He’s twenty-five. Anyone else at home?” the messenger asked, looking up the road at the manor.

“I’ll pass on the message,” Erik said.

“You’d better be there, if you’re unmarried,” the messenger warned. “Everyone in the household who’s unmarried has to be there.”

Erik held up his blackened hands, gestured at his soot-streaked face. “Look at me. I’m a blacksmith.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the messenger said, sternly. “King’s orders. Good day, sir.”

“Good day,” Erik echoed, watching the messenger go.

Erik couldn’t help thinking about the ball throughout the day as he worked, getting sweaty and sooty and covered in grime as usual. He wondered what the prince was like, if he was a stuck-up rich person, full of himself, surrounded by beautiful people, all of them valuing themselves and each other based on wealth and appearance. The gossip that had reached Erik did say that the prince was spoiled and loved parties; likely the king was in fact forcing him to settle down.

He started imagining himself at the ball, dressed in finery, walking among the upper class and seeing them eye-to-eye in a way Shaw never let him. Shaw was proud to show off Erik’s metalwork, but he never let Erik forget that he was merely a blacksmith working off a family debt. The very idea of himself in fine clothes at a ball brought a smile to his face, it was so absurd. 

Late in the afternoon, Shaw arrived home in his massive black carriage. Azazel, his footman, stopped to chat with Erik as the horses were taken to the stable, adjacent to Erik’s work area. Erik told Azazel about the messenger and asked him to carry the message on to the butler, Janos, so it would spread throughout the house -- Erik had too much to do to spend time passing on messages, and he also wasn’t usually seen around the great house, outside of the kitchens. There was an unspoken rule that Erik belonged in the smithy by the stables, that he was too dirty and unkempt for polite company. That was generally fine by Erik, as there were few whose company he liked, but he did resent the idea that the others were better than he was simply because they had less contact with soot. It was as if his craftsmanship, his abilities, didn’t matter.

The next day, Shaw came by, as he sometimes did, to check on the progress of the fine chainmail suit Erik was making for him, as part of the condition of paying off his debt. Erik loved making chainmail; pity, however, that this was going to Shaw, and that it would take so long to complete, putting Erik further away from his release than he would like. Even with his abilities, the work was grueling, but he preferred to work directly with the metal, when possible. And he’d considered leaving Shaw’s estate entirely, but not only was there nowhere he could go, it was with good reason that Shaw was considered a dangerous man.

“I’ve been told there is to be a ball soon,” Shaw said conversationally, with faux friendliness, after he’d inspected the chainmail and pronounced it satisfactory. “Held by the king, for the prince. I’m sure the king is looking to marry the prince off.”

“Yes,” Erik said, noncommittal.

“With every unmarried person in the kingdom required to go. Such a shame you must break the decree.”

“Sir?”

“Well, you aren’t going, of course. Look at you.” With pretend joviality, Shaw gestured at Erik, up and down. “You’re covered in soot. You’re no gentleman. I will be going, of course,” he continued. “I’ve been married before, but… a widower is still an unmarried person, I’m sure.” He smiled. “And the prince is very amenable, I’ve heard. Very handsome. It’s a shame you’ll never see him.” With a smirk, Shaw swept his cape and was on his way, Erik giving him a hasty bow as he went.

Erik now found himself seriously considering going to the ball. Somehow. The problem was, for starters, he had absolutely nothing to wear. He’d never even been to a party before, let alone a ball. As a boy, he’d been an apprentice to a blacksmith; there was no need for him to learn the ways of high society, and he was kept very busy. When his parents passed away in a fire, leaving him alone and in debt to the landowner, Shaw had put him to work right away.

There was, however, someone in the village who could help: Emma the seamstress. She owed Erik, anyway, for some fine goblets. He decided to go see her as soon as he was able.

“You do need help,” she said, in her long white dress, looking him up and down.

“I’m aware,” Erik said dryly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Armando will take your measurements and I’ll start looking over what fabrics will suit you best….” Emma trailed off, looking thoughtful, as Armando approached with a measuring tape. Unfamiliar with the process, Erik let the two of them take charge, although he was wary.

“You’re going to need a masque, too,” Emma mused. “I suppose the prince wants to be able to mix with the ballgoers without knowing them on sight, and without them recognizing him.”

“Why would he want that, if he’s looking for someone to marry?”

“I’ve never personally met him, but I hear he’s an odd one.” Emma picked up fawn- and sage-colored brocades with subtle patterns, along with a lot of black fabrics, and a black domino masque. “I can make you look gorgeous, I’m becoming increasingly sure,” Emma said. “I almost want to thank you for giving me this opportunity. Don’t forget about me when you’re married to the prince. I could go for being an official court dresser.”

“Ha ha,” Erik said, holding still for Armando to measure him in a very awkward place.

Erik took what he could with him that day, keeping it in a trunk in his shack, and the rest was ready two days before the ball. He went to Emma’s shop to have it fitted. Armando, Emma’s assistant, was kind and gracious, helping Erik get into the many fussy garments, and wiping the soot from his face. Erik had made for himself a pair of cufflinks out of some chainmail links that weren’t quite right for the chainmail suit; he’d brought them with him, and attached them now, with Armando’s assistance. 

When Erik was fully dressed, Emma walked in, and put a hand to her decollete. “My goodness, I was right,” Emma said. “You look incredible.”

Erik looked down at himself. “You would know better than I would.”

“We’re magicians,” Armando said to Emma, who agreed.

Once he was changed out of his new clothes and they were all packaged up, Emma told him to go to the village barber the next day to get a haircut and a shave. Erik did as she recommended, and even in the barber’s dirty, distorted glass he got the impression that he was in fact looking very well. 

He went directly to his shack that night, so no one would see, and managed to evade being seen the next day as well. He left after sunset, fully dressed including his cufflinks, taking one of the horses to the castle. At this point, no one who would see him would know him, anyway: Shaw’s blacksmith would be unrecognizable now, cleaned up and wearing fine clothes and a domino masque, particularly in the dark.

He was nervous, however. Emma had tried to give him advice and impart some tips, but he felt that would only do so much for him given that for all of his life he hadn’t absorbed such social graces. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to do much speaking, and could just walk around and try to avoid Shaw. He left the horse in the stables and followed the crowds up the massive stairways to the ballroom. 

Erik had rarely seen so many people in one place, and had never seen a room this size before, even in Shaw’s great house. In fact, the castle’s ballroom could likely hold the entirety of Shaw’s house. Everyone was dressed in gleaming, brilliant embroidered silks and satins, clean and bright-eyed, with elaborate hairstyles, smiling and talking; the women gossiped behind fans, no doubt trying to suss out which of the masked men was the prince.

Musicians were gathered on a stage, playing, and although many people were at the sides of the great ballroom, an equal number were in the center, dancing. Erik watched for quite some time, wishing idly that he had any way of knowing who the prince was, simply out of curiosity. He hoped no one thought him rude for not asking anyone to dance, but as he didn’t know how, he was actually doing everyone a favor.

“Pardon me, my friend, but you appear as if you might be in need of greater entertainment,” said a man to his side.

“I assure you, I am quite all right,” Erik said, turning. The man was shorter than he, brown hair artfully arranged in the latest fashion, expressive blue eyes dancing behind his masque. Like the others, he was dressed finely, his jacket trimmed in gold braid, in contrast to Erik’s simpler clothes and darker colors.

“A group of us are going to set off fireworks. You simply must see them,” the man said.

And Erik was interested. As he understood it, fireworks used different types of metals to create different brilliant colors. Perhaps he could see some up close, before they were fired off. “All right,” he agreed, and followed the man outside.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“Max,” Erik answered. “And yours?”

“Francis,” the man replied. “A pleasure to meet you, Max.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.”

Francis and his friends, and Erik, gathered outside on a broad balcony under the stars, overlooking the mountains and the river. Erik, who had never been so high up before nor had such a view, stared out over the moonlit valley until Francis got his attention, directing him to a man named Henry who was in charge of setting off the fireworks. He let Erik look at them first, and the three of them discussed their makeup. Erik was surprised and pleased to see that even wealthy aristocrats experienced curiosity about and interest in the world.

The fireworks were set off, out over the valley, and Erik stared in amazement at the display of different colors. His special ability enabled him to feel, at a remove, the uncanny sensation of the metal salts of the fireworks exploding as they were heated, which added an interesting layer to the visual aspect. 

“How marvelous,” he said aloud, glancing at Francis, who, if Erik hadn’t known better, seemed to have been looking at him rather than at the fireworks. But that was surely nonsense. Erik watched until all the fireworks had been set off, and then applauded Henry, with Francis joining in. The others walked back inside, with Hank, Erik, and then Francis bringing up the rear. 

“Do you dance?” Francis asked.

“I’m afraid not.... Not very well,” Erik corrected himself. He was dressed like nobility tonight, and a nobleman could not be assumed to not dance at all. 

Francis laughed. “On the one hand, that’s a shame, as I’d quite like to dance with you.” Before Erik could reply, Francis continued. “On the other hand, I’m absolutely sick of dancing.”

“That’s surely an odd thing to say, at a ball,” Erik remarked.

“No odder than not dancing and coming to a ball,” Francis returned.

“Well, after all, we were required by the king to attend this particular ball,” Erik reminded him. “Or have you forgotten?”

Francis sighed. “I could never forget.”

Erik wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Well, with the fireworks done and dancing out of the question, what shall we do?”

“We’ll go to the library and play chess,” Francis decided. “Do you play?”

“I must disappoint you again, I’m afraid,” Erik said. “I do not.”

“You can’t disappoint me,” Francis declared. “I’ll teach you.”

“There’s no need -- surely you have people to see, people to dance with, at a ball like this.” Although he, surprisingly, had no qualms about spending more time with the mysterious Francis, it made no sense to him that Francis would want to spend time with him. He spared one thought to wonder why Francis seemed to assume he could make use of the royal library, but after all, he didn’t know the ways of aristocrats.

“I’m tired of balls,” Francis said. “Come on, let’s go.” Smiling encouragingly, Francis led the way up a grand staircase.

And so Erik spent the next few hours of his first ball learning to play chess in a sumptuously appointed, clearly ancient, solemn library. Francis was kind, intelligent, and witty, and though they both kept their masques on, Erik found himself wanting to see his face in full -- just seeing those merry blue eyes and attractively red lips wasn’t quite enough. 

Luckily, too, Francis didn’t ask him many personal questions, since Erik would have to make up answers. They did, however, talk about more than just chess -- they talked about fireworks, horses, craftsmanship, books (Erik was fortunate enough to know how to read, and to have read several great books at his mother’s request), and other things. Francis was easy to talk to, charming, and yet seemed genuinely interested in Erik. 

Eventually, however, Francis said with regret in his tone that they should get back to the ball before people noticed he was missing. Erik agreed, although he would have much rather stayed in the library with Francis, alone. Erik could hear the massive clock at the head of the staircase striking midnight, and he reached out with his ability to feel the movements of the gears. 

They walked back downstairs to the great ballroom, which was still quite full, and loud. “These people may be here until dawn, waiting for their prince’s favor,” Erik remarked, and Francis made a face. 

“It’s a waste of time, at this point,” Francis said, and laughed. He turned to Erik, as they stepped onto the ballroom floor. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” he asked, and just as Erik was considering saying he would like to give it a try, he looked up and met Shaw’s gaze, his eyes cold and grey and unmistakeable even surrounded by a masque. Shaw started toward him, apparently recognizing him as well. 

“I must go,” Erik said to Francis even as he turned on his heel, striding toward the doorway as quickly as he could, his back to Shaw. He heard Francis say “What--” and then pushed thoughts of Francis from his mind as best he could.

Now that Shaw knew Erik had defied him, his debt would be increased manyfold, and he’d be lucky to ever leave. He’d never be able to see Francis again.

Shaw did not follow him immediately back to the estate. He made Erik wait until the next morning before informing him that he was terribly disappointed to find that Erik couldn’t obey orders, and that this sadly meant that, necessarily, his debt would be increased. He gave a number that Erik knew he might never reach.

Erik occasionally found himself thinking of Francis, but he did his best to put a stop to that -- it was useless, and remembering Francis’ smile would do him no good, no matter how pleasant the memory. 

And to top it all off, one of his cufflinks was missing.

Several days later, the messenger came by again. Erik, again the only person around, went over to see what he wanted to proclaim. “The prince says he met the love of his life at the ball the other night,” the messenger said, rolling his eyes, “but that said love left early and now the prince is in search of said person, the next royal consort. Can you believe it,” the messenger said flatly.

“Again, what does that have to do with me?”

“I’m only the messenger,” the messenger said. “Anyway, you’re supposed to come with me.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to come with me, back to the castle,” the messenger said, impatient. “To see if it’s you.”

“It’s-- not me,” Erik said. “Remember? I’m a blacksmith, I didn’t go to the ball. If I did, I’m sure I wouldn’t have met any prince.”

“Just come with me, sir,” the messenger said with a sigh. “We’ll have to do this with everyone until the prince’s love is found.”

Confused, Erik followed the messenger back to the castle, soot on his face and his apron on and all. It was a long walk.

At the castle, in the enormous throne room, the king sat at the top of a marble staircase far above the floor where Erik, the messenger, and a throng of other people waiting to be seen stood. Seated next to him was the prince, both of them so high up that Erik could not see them very clearly, but he could tell that the prince was not looking at the crowd as one by one the king called them up and questioned them. A scribe marked off their names as they were dismissed, but some of them stayed behind to see if the prince’s love would be found.

Shaw, of course, was also one of the people questioned by the king. He bowed as low as he could, oozing words of praise for the king, the prince, and the ball, until the king cut him off. He was unable to answer the king’s questions to his satisfaction, however, apparently, and was dismissed, looking sour. He took a place along the wall, his expression saying that he was trying to reclaim some dignity. Erik was sure he would be in a bad mood tonight; as ambitious as Shaw was, he coveted a connection to the throne.

Eventually, it was Erik’s turn. He stepped forward, as the page directed him.

“Name?” the king asked.

Erik bowed, hoping he was doing the right thing. “Erik Lehnsherr, your majesty. I am a blacksmith and I was not permitted to attend the ball last night.” The prince shifted to murmur something to the king.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” the king said, as if Erik hadn’t said his last sentence, “did you lose something at the ball last night?”

Erik went still. “Your majesty?”

“Did you leave something behind?”

Erik noticed the prince was suddenly more attentive.

“I-- lost a metal cufflink, your majesty.”

“Describe it to us.”

“It’s made of chainmail, your majesty.” The prince was smiling now.

“You may approach the throne, Erik Lehnsherr.” There was a murmur through the crowd; no one had been asked to approach the king yet today.

Erik glanced at the messenger, who shrugged, and started up the marble staircase. It was a long walk, and it was with both surprise and a total lack of it that Erik realized, as he got closer, that the young man seated in the prince’s throne, smiling with red lips and mischievous blue eyes, was Francis.

Erik stood before the king, looking at the marble and ornate carpet before him rather than directly at him, feeling Francis’ -- Charles’ -- eyes on him.

“My son, the prince,” the king said, sounding exasperated and a little fond, “has informed me that when he promised to wed a dweller of our kingdom, it was not specified that he had to marry a woman. He tells me he intends to marry ‘Max,’ who left a cufflink on the ballroom floor after a sudden exit. It seems that this is you, Erik Lehnsherr, in actuality a humble blacksmith. Are you in fact this person?”

“Your majesty, if your son is the young man who gave me his name as Francis at the ball and who taught me to play chess, then yes, I am Max.”

The king looked at his son, who nodded, smiling.

The king sighed. “Erik Lehnsherr, blacksmith, I hereby extend to you an offer of marriage to my son, Prince--”

Charles stood up, walked toward Erik, and took one of Erik’s hands in both of his, heedless of the soot that covered him. “Erik, will you accept my offer of marriage and be my royal consort?”

Erik blinked. He thought he’d never see Francis -- Charles -- again, and here he was being asked to marry him.

 _You’d be freed forever from Shaw_ , Charles’ voice said in his head. Erik stared at him in amazement. _Shhh_ , Charles said, and smiled. _Very few people know I’m a telepath. And Francis is my middle name_. 

“I don’t want to marry just to escape Shaw,” Erik said, low. Then he remembered what the messenger had said. “Am I really the love of your life?” he said, even more quietly, teasing.

“I’m afraid so,” Charles murmured in reply.

“You barely know me,” Erik admonished.

“I know enough about you,” Charles said, “and I’ve found nothing I object to yet.” That soft look in Charles’ eyes was making Erik feel a bit lightheaded.

“Why ask everyone to come to be questioned? Why not try to track me down specifically?”

“I didn’t think you’d come unless you felt everyone had to,” Charles replied. “Besides, I want them all to see that I’ve found you.”

Erik paused, thoughtful. Charles was kind, intelligent, handsome, and a joy to be with. “I could do worse,” he mused. “And I suppose you could grow on me…. Yes, Charles, yes; I’ll do you the honor of becoming your royal consort.”

Charles laughed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, briefly but firmly. 

“At least let me clean myself up first,” Erik muttered, heart beating faster -- that was the first time he’d been kissed by anyone. Apprenticeship and then laboring for Shaw did not leave one much time for social things.

“I’m not bothered. I like you like this,” Charles said, beaming. 

“Why didn’t you make it known you were the prince, at the ball?” Erik wondered.

“I wanted to see if I could find someone more interested in me than in the crown,” Charles said.

“Very wise,” Erik remarked, thinking that Emma had probably had the right idea.

“Charles,” the king sighed, “your line of succession--”

“We’ll adopt,” Charles said immediately. He hadn’t broken Erik’s gaze since he’d kissed him. “Oh, Erik, would you like your cufflink back?” 

With his ability, Erik sensed it -- the cufflink was in Charles’ jacket pocket. Just using his power, he pulled it out, and floated it in the air before catching it in his free hand, pocketing it in his apron.

“Wonderful,” Charles breathed.

Erik looked down at the assembled people, and caught sight of Shaw striding toward the doorway. He called out, “Sebastian Shaw, be it known that your blacksmith is no longer in your employ, now being the royal consort of the prince.” 

Shaw stopped walking, but did not turn around. 

“I hereby declare all debts owed by the Lehnsherr family to the Shaw estate forgiven,” Charles added. Shaw’s head dropped, he paused for a moment, and then continued his walk to the door.

The assembled people cheered, but for Erik’s acceptance or for Shaw’s humiliation, Erik wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.

Erik turned to Charles. “Have a messenger bring Emma and Armando from the village to the court to be employed as dressers. That is, if it pleases you to do so.”

“It pleases me to do so. It pleases me very much to do as you request,” Charles said, grinning as if he might not ever stop, and this time Erik leaned in to kiss him, unsure and at a slightly wrong angle, but judging from his expression, Charles didn’t mind. 

As Charles rested a hand at the small of Erik’s back, Erik felt Charles’ mind caress his own, an extraordinary sensation that made him go entirely still.

“By the way,” Charles whispered in his ear, making him shiver now, “I simply must teach you how to dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Liz and Paige for reading this over!  
> When I found that the Cherik fics under the "Male Cinderella" tags were with Charles as Cinderella, I felt moved to write this.... I adore Charles being creepy and I admit that by extension I am creepy for loving that it's canon that they like immediately bond to an unhealthy extent. :D


End file.
